


three-two-one

by Mira



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-11
Updated: 2006-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:13:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/197829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira/pseuds/Mira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John stood up and began to fire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three-two-one

**Author's Note:**

> For [Ciderpress](http://ciderpress.livejournal.com), who accidentally inspired it. Beta by the the [Lady of Asheru](http://lady_of_asheru.livejournal.com) and [Ciderpress.](http://ciderpress.livejournal.com)

_three_

Fury rained, soaking John where he stood, arms braced, aiming carefully. He squinted against the shifting lights, the sun and the moons and all the stars falling obliquely across the grass-laden fields, caught in the branches of leafless trees. Both summer and fall, a moment caught between each, the world beneath him spun away from its sun and into its night, its axis tilting away from its orbital plane. He planted his feet firmly, combating his desire to run through the grasses, in some places the height of his shoulders, clinging to his weapon while the world swung around him.

 _Down_ , someone shouted, or had he? A thought, a good thought, so he fell to his knees, slowly, as the molasses-y soil surged around him catching him, the thick grasses folding into a bed to catch him, and he lay down. Here, he could see that the sea bottom of the field was covered in small purple flowers, fuzzy like clover, with orange islands of flowers like silken rags. He stared at one near him; the subtle veins of the petals glimmered, red-orange against the vibrant orange. The light around him shifted, redshifted, into a warm yellow, then a rich orange, moving away from him, he knew, redshift meant away, it was moving away.

 _Sheppard_ sounded, _Sheppard_ , not a bell, a voice, but he felt it, _Sheppard, Sheppard_ , his pulse, _oh shit_ , and finally a whisper _John_ , and he submerged, sinking beneath the crimson soil, beautiful contrasted with the orange flowers and the green grasses, red, redshift, away, receding, withdrawing, removing.

 _John_ , and he knew this was a voice, exterior, a voice he was compelled to respond to but he could only roll his head, then something pushed and he fell out of the earth into the sky, heavy heads of grass cross-hatching the bending sky above him. _Don't, don't_ the voice said, and so he didn't. Other voices, and an explosion, some kind of delayed-blowback that rang his head and chest, which ached, its own explosion with each heartbeat, _oh, Sheppard, Christ, hold still_.

He fell back into his body, eyes snapping open, mouth open in a cry. Rodney slapped his hand over John's mouth, _Shh! Christ, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_ ; it was Rodney's weight pressing into John's chest. _I think this is what they call a sucking chest wound_ , Rodney whispered, leaning more heavily against him. _Hang on, hang on_. John could hear tiny voices echoing; headset, he thought, but he couldn't move, then the night lit up, pinpoints of white and yellow stars trailing across the sky. Rodney lay flat on top of him, _please, please, please_ , and it was beautiful, Rodney was beautiful in the chill of the dying light, his face turned toward John, mouth set firmly, eyes determined.

"Stay," John gasped, "alive."

"Shut up," Rodney hissed. "Don't you fucking dare --" The explosions grew closer, and now John recognized them as firearms, the stink of burning propellant strong, muzzle flashes all around them, only Rodney and the flowers for protection. He twitched his right hand, but it wouldn't move to cup Rodney's head, to keep him safe; John could only lie there in the dank earth, hoping he wouldn't slip under again.

More shots, and men yelling, and they'd be run over soon, but he couldn't move and Rodney wouldn't, so he rolled his head to the side, bumping into Rodney's forehead, and kissed him goodbye. Rodney raised his head, his eyes glittering in the erratic light, mouth open, and he wiped John's face, then wiped his mouth, then kissed him, and he tasted of blood and soil and flowers and the lights exploding above them. "If you fucking bleed out on me," Rodney whispered, but kissed him without finishing his threat. All of John's body was in that kiss; he couldn't move, could only accept Rodney's kiss, lush and tender and fierce all at once, and John realized what he'd known all along but had never bothered to think about because he would have to do something, so he kissed Rodney back, his kiss saying all he never could, never would.

"Don't die, okay?" Rodney said suddenly, one hand coming up to cup his headset against his ear. He stared at John as if he'd never see him again, kissed him quickly, then rolled away, and John couldn't catch his breath, it was as though he were climbing Everest and there wasn't enough oxygen in the world to fill his angry lungs that hissed with each agonizing breath. He heard voices closing in and opened his eyes, _fight_ he glared into the night, _not now_ , but Rodney fell next to him, slapping his hand over John's chest and the hissing stopped. "Fix him," Rodney gasped, "Carson, Lorne."

"We've got it, Rodney," Carson said, and his pale face loomed above John. "Bless the man, he's awake. Colonel, can you hear me?" John blinked rapidly, rocking his head. "Calm yourself, lad. We'll take care of you."

"Just mopping up now, Colonel," Lorne said as he strung the IV line; he'd slid the needle into the back of John's hand without him noticing, which scared him. "The jumper's a few meters away. We'll be back in Atlantis in under an hour, right, Doc?"

Carson nodded, leaning over John, staring at his chest. Rodney had pushed back John's jacket; Carson cut his tee-shirt in three quick snips and then John was cold, the air, whatever Carson was using, he wasn't sure, but he could catch his breath again. "All right, John," Carson said. "We need to move you; no need to treat you in the open air. Major?"

"On three, Doc, and one, two, _three_ ; there you go, Colonel."

"Come along, Rodney," Carson said as they stood. John was lifted above the grass and suddenly could see fire and smell smoke. "Rodney!"

"Rodney," John whispered. He couldn't see anything but Carson, Lorne, and the sky above him, but he could tell from Carson's face that Rodney was following. Others joined them: Lorne's team, and then his own, Ronon and Teyla all of them drenched. "Rain?" he tried to ask, but Carson shushed him and then he saw light streaming from the open hatch of the jumper.

They set his litter on the floor in the back, Carson kneeling beside him, still studying his chest. Others filed in, their boots heavy with mud, grass seed caught in their trousers, the smell of the world they were leaving filling the jumper. "He'll be all right," Carson said, and Rodney sat heavily on the floor next to John.

Around them settled Crown and Parker and Sifuentes and Smitty, crammed side by side onto one bench, while behind Carson John could see Teyla and Ronon, watching him closely. They were spotted with mud, and Teyla's wet hair splotched her jacket a darker brown. Next to Teyla, Cadman squeezed in, and finally Grey-Wilson stood, one hand braced on the ceiling. "Hang on," Lorne called. "Going home."

John rolled his head to his left, letting his forehead bump Rodney's knee. Carson must have given him something; he felt soft, open, as if he were breathing through his skin, feeling through the air. He could smell the mud on Rodney's knees, the dank of the mud of that world, the green scent of the grasses, and caught in the laces on Rodney's running shoes was an orange shred from the flowers hidden beneath the grass.

Rodney lay his hand on John's head.

John closed his eyes.

Rodney stroked his thumb across John's forehead, as soft as the silken drag of a flower petal.

John remembered the rain, the shot, the exploding pain, his long fall into the welcoming earth, the hiss of the air escaping his lungs, and Rodney's body protecting him, saving his breath, saving him. He remembered Rodney's kiss, furious and frightened, and the rain of light above them as Rodney sheltered him.

He took a deep breath. He remembered the kiss, and Rodney's panicked whispers, and his pleas, and his threats. He remembered Rodney's solid weight, and his warm breath against John's face.

He remembered the kiss.

 **  
_two_   
**

"Get back, get back!" John breathed into his mic, sinking behind an inadequate shrub. To his right, he saw Teyla vanish into the tall grass, ripples revealing her careful movement, and then an explosion. No one responded on the radio, no one. For a moment he stared back, then turned to face their assailants. "Get help," he ordered whoever was still on radio; "dial Atlantis and _get help_." He spotted movement to his left, and crawled toward it, but every move sent the grasses waving above him, so he scrambled to his feet and ran as fast as he could, his P90's nine hundred rpm thundering in his ears, drawing them away from Teyla. He saw movement: two men fell, crying out, a third went to his knees but raised his weapon. John swung his weapon, slowly, cutting like a laser across them, then tucked and rolled away.

He lay flat on the ground, beneath another of the scrubby trees, listening to whatever projectiles they were using whine past, cutting down the nodding heads of grass, exploding in the bark of a small tree, as he reloaded. When they paused, he rolled onto his stomach and without raising his head, began firing in their direction, slowing coming up behind the tree. Six more went down before he flattened himself, backing up, trying to flank them.

Panting, he rested, forehead to the ground, smelling the rich soil, trying to catch his breath. He gave a thought to Teyla, hoping she was away, and wondered who, if anyone, was calling Atlantis. He took a deep breath and began to crab-walk backwards and further to his left, knowing his movement was no longer as obvious at this distance and behind a line of bedraggled trees that planet produced. He heard voices and froze.

Not his people. Not many, either. He reloaded again, checking the magazines in his tac vest; they went fast during this kind of fight.

The voices drew nearer; someone was crying, maybe shot or maybe grieving, he didn't much care. They'd fired first, they'd shot at his team, they'd shot at him, so fuck them. "Shut up," someone snapped, and the crying man sobbed once, then sniffled, and John rose, like god, he thought, like Venus from the sea, like Achilles returning to the battle, staring at their astonished faces as their bodies jerked and fell and his shoulder ached, his fingers were numb, his head throbbed, and then he went flying backwards, just like the men he'd shot.

He lay on his back staring into the darkening sky. One, two, three, he thought, and got a hand behind him, pushing, standing, daring the two left standing. Bracing himself, he stretched out his hand, reduced to his Beretta. He glared at them, sighting down the barrel, and watched as the last of the sunlight faded, leaving swathes of gold light across the cumulus clouds. Two moons gleamed through the clouds, pearl-white and pale yellow, swimming through the night in a sea of stars.

 **  
_one_   
**

"Greetings!" Teyla called, smiling. John followed her closely, sensing Rodney at his heels and knowing that Ronon trailed cautiously. "How good to see you, old friends."

"Teyla Emmagan, it is an honor," an older man called. John wondered why he didn't return her smile.

"Something's wrong," Teyla said, and John held his hand up.

"What?" Rodney whispered.

"Go back," John said. "Ronon, get Rodney back to the jumper."

"What? Wait, hey," Rodney protested, but John could hear that he was already backing away; he'd been off-world often enough in situations gone south fast enough that he knew the drill. John shifted his P90 as subtly as he could, but it was, he knew, a weird-looking weapon and many eyes were drawn to it.

"Teyla," the man said again, but the half-dozen people around him were also backing away. "Teyla, I'm sorry."

John pivoted so he and Teyla stood back-to-back, heading toward the jumper. He knew Ronon and even Rodney would have their weapons trained on the people around them, but was there enough time?

From behind the people, behind Teyla's friends, another group emerged, carrying weapons that looked an awful lot like fully-automatic submachine guns, glossy black things. He jogged backwards a few more steps and then dropped into the tall grasses, Teyla disappearing to his right. John tapped his headset. "Get under cover," he ordered them. "Work your way to the jumper. Rodney, dial the gate as soon as you can."

Clicks in his ear told them the others had heard. He didn't want to fire on these people until he had to; he didn't want to risk injuring Teyla's friends, no matter how complicit they were. He crept backwards, moving as slowly as he could, pausing when he reached a scrubby looking tree. So far, whoever they were hadn't fired a single shot. He could hope for a misunderstanding, though he didn't believe it. He slowly raised his head, catching sight of movement and then the noise of trampling feet.

Through the grass, he saw one man slowly raise his weapon, pointing to John's right, toward where Teyla had disappeared. Instantly, John sprang to his feet, firing as he did. Blood spurted from the man's chest and he released his weapon in an almost graceful arc. Others turned his way; nine or ten, he thought, dropping to the ground again, backing into the cover of the tree as their weapons exploded, far noisier than the racket his P90 made, and the ammonia stink of the propellant made him wrinkle his nose and continue retreating toward the jumper.

Someone shouted, desperate, afraid, a man's voice, not one of his team members, but Teyla cried out; one of her friends, then. John slid up the too-narrow trunk of a tree, trying to hide behind it, and saw the first man who'd spoken to them dragged out into the field, one of the weapons held to his throat. Behind him a woman screamed, tearing at her clothing, falling to her knees. "Please!" she cried just before one of them shot her in the head, a bloom of red replacing her cheek and eye. John shot him, and the man standing next to him.

"Lasse!" the man shouted, twisting in his assailant's arms. "No, Lasse!"

John took careful aim, but they'd located him and he fell back, collapsing behind the tree, crawling to his left. He'd get behind them, he decided, and shoot the sonofabitch holding Lasse's husband. Draw their attention from Teyla. Kill the fuckers. A few yards more and he lay flat in the grass, wondering where Ronon and Rodney were, if they'd reached the jumper yet. Rodney would call Atlantis, he knew; he'd bring reinforcements and then he'd kick John's ass. Something to look forward to, John thought, imagining Rodney's sour expression if he could see John now. The field he scrabbled through smelled green and fresh, so different from the bitter stink of the weapons. This was supposed to be a place to trade for fresh fruit; Rodney had been describing the various apple pies he'd enjoyed over the years and looking forward to persuading the cooks to trying some of them. "Pie is a good word," Ronon had said solemnly, and Rodney had nodded vigorously.

John stood up and began to fire.


End file.
